


Cat's out of the Bag

by Sath



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Clothed Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Republic of Thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: Jean and Locke steal a famous cat, outwit three drunken burghers, and have a long-delayed discussion.





	Cat's out of the Bag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



Getting out of Karthain right before Vadran troops arrived had been lucky, but that was where Jean and Locke’s luck had ended. Every major road leading out of the bloody way was blocked, whether by soldiers, weather, or the local nobility. Most of the time, they pretended to be Vadran, because at least Vadrans were supposed to be running around with a fire under their asses. When press gangs arrived, they quickly returned to being Camorri.

Emberlain was the last place they wanted to go, so of course that’s where they ended up, with few resources beyond travel-stained clothes and Locke’s fraying brain.

They’d also started having sex. It had happened for the first time after a particularly awful night hiding in someone’s barn, and then it kept happening. There were more serious things to worry about than exactly why they had started sleeping together, like war, Bondsmagi, losing everything they had over and over again…

But, they would have to discuss ‘it’ eventually. Jean was making plans to have a delicate conversation right after a good meal and a shared bottle of wine.   

Of course, Locke decided he wanted to bring things up while crawling under a margrave’s enormous bed, trying to steal a cat.

“I’ve been thinking,” Locke said, “about what might be him—Lamor Acanthus—and what might be me. I don’t think that a mad Bondsmage ever had a friend like you, or maybe he would’ve been just a little less mad.”

Smiling to himself, Jean replied, “Lamor Acanthus’s friend was Patience, which explains a lot. Can we finish this conversation out here? All I can see are your shoes.”

“No, I’d rather have it under the bed.” There was nothing but shuffling sounds until Locke spoke up again. “I don’t know who I am since Karthain, and I’m trying to find what’s mine, and I think all I have left that can’t also be _his_ is you.”

Jean sat in one of the Margrave’s chairs, feeling that if Locke wanted to hide, he may as well bring himself closer to Locke’s level. Lamor Acanthus was a subject Locke kept coming back to, and as much as Jean understood the fixation, there was nothing he could do to help. Locke Lamora was Locke Lamora, and Lamor Acanthus was gone; he was only a name that Locke had always remembered, and whispered to Jean years ago.

“I wish you’d stop obsessing over being undead,” said Jean.

“I hope you turn out to be the reincarnated spirit of Evil Wizard Damor Adandus, and then there’ll be no stopping my whining because you’ll understand.”

“I’m glad you’re able to joke about it.” Jean addressed his words to Locke’s soles. “I thought you’d be at the bottom of a wine cask and wailing about how no one has ever suffered like you have.”

“Maybe the difference this time is your cock,” Locke replied, a little uncomfortable laugh coming from under the bed.

“You pick odd times to be reflective.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a _small_ change from the other times my life went up Perelandro’s balls for a kicking. Here, puss puss,” Locke said to the cat, making a chirping noise nowhere near a meow. “Come to Master Lamora and the giblets in his pocket.”

“Have you tried speaking Vadran? She probably hasn’t met any Camorri before.”

“Right, how foolish of me.” Switching to Vadran, Locke asked, “Lady Margareta, there are two gentlemen here who would love to pet you.”

“Then drop you off at Baroness bel Sarden’s and give Marshal Wolf an excuse to seize her property for the crime of stealing Margrave Treffen’s prized cat.”

A real meow came out from under the bed. “I’ve got her!”

Locke began wriggling back out, struggling with the frightened Lady Margareta. Just as he was nearly clear, the cat leap out of his arms and Locke hit his head on the bedframe with a thunk like someone dropping a melon. Lady Margareta was a blaze of white streaking towards the dresser.

“Ignore me—catch the godsdamned cat!” Locke groaned, clutching the back of his head. “Fuck me all the way to hell.”

The dresser had little of the breadth of the bed, so it was easy for Jean to go on his knees and gently pull her out, her sharp claws dragging along the floor. Before she could escape again, Jean put her in the carrier, where she started yowling like an entire colony of wronged cats.

Locke was leaning against the bed, looking miserable. He let Jean run his fingers through his hair, feeling where a lump was already growing. There wasn’t any blood, though, and as far as Locke’s injuries tended to go, it barely registered.

Waving his hand in front of Locke’s face, Jean asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I want to puke.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Lovely. Looks like you’ll get to take care of me as usual. Help me up and let’s go to the Baroness’s.”

“I can do it on my own,” Jean replied, giving Locke a hand.

Locke stood with his feet spaced widely apart, clearly dizzy. “No. I insist on being a pain.”

“You are.”

“But you don’t have time to drop me off.”

He was, unfortunately, not wrong. “We have to descend two stories on a rope. How do you want to handle it?”

Clutching Jean’s arm, Locke whispered, “You’ll have to hold me.” He grinned. “Are you blushing, or is that just your terrible complexion again?”

“You’re the one who still looks like he crawled out of a grave.”

“And what does that say about you? Corpsefucker.”

“If you break your neck, I won’t weep for you.” Jean handed over the cat carrier. “Hang on to Lady Margareta.”

Taking up the second grappling hook, Jean carefully packed it away while Locke fed the cat a sedative-laced giblet. The drug didn’t work instantly, so they’d have to get off the property before they attracted notice. Margrave Treffen loved his cat more than his own family—he’d written Lady Margareta into his will, and most of his cousins out. Jean checked the fit of his gloves one last time as Locke slung the carrier’s strap over his shoulder.

“Cat secured?” Jean asked.

“Like the Margrave’s own child.”

Jean had a moment of vertigo as he went over the sill, though two stories was nothing like the height of a Camorri great house, and they weren’t abseiling, thank the gods. After making sure he had a sure grip on the rope, he signaled for Locke to follow him. Locke clumsily scrambled down the sill while the cat wailed. There was only one nail-biting moment where it seemed like Locke might fall, but then Jean secured him with his free hand. Neither of them wanted to risk a broken leg, though Locke would have probably been fine on his own.

Locke furrowed his brows as he tried to focus on the rope and make a half-assed attempt to help them descend. Margrave Treffen had built his home with brick, so Jean had toeholds, which helped him support most of Locke’s weight on one thigh.

“This would be much more awkward,” said Locke, woozily leaning against him, “if we hadn’t fucked before.”

Pausing to catch his breath, Jean replied, “I think I’m getting tired of carrying you around.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Jean shook his head and started going down again. “I’d planned on talking about it over a nice dinner.”

“Oh, so you’re wooing me?”

“If the last decade didn’t already count as wooing, your standards are impossible.”

As soon as he felt the ground under his feet, Jean let Locke go.

“They are pretty high,” Locke admitted. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees and clearly trying not to be sick. But when Jean tried to take the cat back, Locke pushed him away. “No, no, the lady helps me balance. This has to be the most fucking stupid way I’ve gotten injured on a job yet.”

“What about when Galdo accidentally kicked you in the face and you landed tailbone-first on a railing, so you spent the next three days in bed because your ass hurt?”

Locke laughed weakly. “Damn it, Jean,” he muttered, stalking off at a fast walk as he wiped at his eyes.

It hurt to think of the Sanzas, but Jean didn’t want to hold every memory back like Locke did. “Are you feeling … emotional?” Jean asked.

“I’m always emotional,” Locke snapped, seeming steadier on his feet now.

“Unusually emotional?” The last time Locke had been concussed, he’d argued with a washerwoman and threw five pairs of wet stockings into the street.

Locke let Jean catch up. “Gods, it’s my head again. I’d rather throw up.”

“Well, we have the entire length of the Margrave’s garden for that, as long as you do it quietly.”

They did their best to look like unsuspicious folk ambling quickly past some cat topiaries. A coach was waiting for them—Marshal Wolf had been helpful with arrangements for the theft, which meant there were more people to cock things up than usual.

* * *

The Baroness bel Sarden lived at the center of the town of Walgarten. Though most of the Marrows was in chaos, Walgarten itself was small enough to go unnoticed. The local lords weren’t powerful enough to clamber for the crown, but they were very interested in keeping their holdings out of any battles.

Locke and Jean were obliged to sneak around the back of the Baroness’s home and go to the kitchen entrance. It was at the perfect hour—too late for anyone to be calling for food, too early for the bakers to begin their work. A lone conspirator, still in her nightgown, came to the door and let them in. She opened up the carrier to ensure that the cat was in fact the legendary Lady Margareta. The two of them yawned at each other.

“I’ll let the Marshal know that you didn’t cheat her with some animal off the street,” she said. “Your payment will be ready just before dusk.”

“If she doesn’t cheat _us_ ,” Locke replied.

“Cheat a pair of thieves conniving enough to catch her interest? She’s not stupid.” After giving the placid cat a kiss on the head, she put her back in the carrier. “Come on, kitty, let’s put you somewhere you’ll be found by the right people. Safe and unseen travels to you, gentlemen.”

Jean gave her a little bow as Locke leaned on the counter and bit into an apple.

“Sure you should be eating that?” Jean asked.

“No,” Locke said, still chewing. “I’d suck a cock for one of Doña Sofia’s oranges right now. Vadran fruit tastes like dust.”

“Have you been thinking I’ve been hiding oranges this whole time?”

Locke sniggered. Before he could reply, three young burghers entered the kitchen. All of them looked like they’d grown up on account books and hunting trips, with the expansive good humor that came from being piss drunk.

“Lange!” exclaimed the nearest of them, with half her hair falling out of its bun. “Jaeger! Where’ve you two boys been?”

“How’s the marriage?” asked the tall one. “Still in love? Or have you come to hate each other, like all good married couples?”

Why did drunks always come to the kitchen at this time of night? Jean was sober, so outmaneuvering them should be easy, if only Locke could stop crunching on fruit loudly enough to wake the dead.

“He’s trying to poison me,” Locke replied. “It’s why I came all the way out here for an apple. But he’s a faster runner than he looks, the bastard.”  

“Good old Lange,” the one with an oiled mustache said, laughing. “But come, have you forgotten us? Weiss, Berger, and Otto! We spent last summer together, on Marshal Wolf's hunting estate.”

Berger the burgher—Lady of the Long Silence spare him. Jean considered using his fists to knock them out, except that three people getting assaulted in her kitchen would alert the Baroness.  

“Apologies, friends,” Jean said. He assumed they were friends, but it was hard to tell with their type. “My husband hit his head, and he’s confused and stupid.”

“I hit it on the bed,” Locke added.

“You rascals!” Berger, the one with her hair up, pounded Locke on the back. “Hope it was worth it.”

Putting the half-eaten apple back in the fruit basket, Locke shrugged. “I can’t remember. And Jaeger’s such a liar, he’d tell me I was overcome by his masculinity and fainted right into the headboard.”

Otto with the mustache nodded. “Sounds like him. Have you put some raw beef on the bump? I heard it helps.”

“Yes,” said Weiss, “let’s get you some meat to stick on it.”

“You idiots,” Berger declared. “Lange needs a posset of rosemary and horse urine.”

“Oh gods, no,” Jean blurted out.

“Berger, you madwoman,” Locke said, trying not to look alarmed.

“My fourth cousin’s an apothecary! Fine, no urine then.” Berger, clearly the ringleader, tapped her chin. “Weiss, Otto, assemble a cheese board for five.”

Seeing an opportunity, Jean said, “Allow us. The Baroness has already advised us on which cheeses are good, and which ought to be reserved for her enemies.”

Berger inclined her head, more hair falling out of the bun. She had few strands left to lose before the style disintegrated entirely. “Very well, but don’t poison Lange.”

They went to assembling a plate from the Baroness’s ample pantry. “We need pâté,” Jean said meaningfully, glancing back to see the burghers occupied with talking amongst themselves.

Locke looked blankly at Jean, before going up on the balls of his feet to grab a jar with a picture of a liver and a sad goose on it. He swore as he started to fall over; Jean caught him just in time.

“Good work,” Jean whispered, taking the giblets out of Locke’s pocket as he helped him back on his feet.

“Why else would you serve pâté with butter cheese? I’m disgusted.”

Jean and Locke surreptitiously cut the drugged giblets small enough to go unnoticed as they spread the pâté over the cheese and hid their crime against food under thin slices of cured meat. Father Chains would have been appalled. They kept a few edible servings without pâté, so the burghers wouldn’t be suspicious if Lange and Jaeger didn’t eat anything.

“Lange? Are you poisoned?” Otto asked.

“Not yet! Just still unsteady from hitting my head.”

“Jaeger, I don’t know if that’s a recommendation of your skills in bed or a warning,” Weiss remarked.

“A dire warning,” Locke said.

“Lady, gentlemen,” Jean announced, setting the cheese board at the servants’ table, “your charcuterie.”

The burghers swarmed over the food. Besides remarking on the chunkiness of the pâté, they didn’t seem to taste what they were eating. Jean and Locke endured twenty minutes on pork futures and whether Gentled meat tasted off. Weiss was the first to go, nodding off against Berger’s shoulder. Berger put her head on the table and started to snore, but Otto persisted until all the spiked pâté was gone, saving Jean the trouble of disposing of the rest.

When they got back out on the street, the dawn was just beginning to color the horizon. They had gotten away with stealing and un-stealing the most well-known cat in the Seven Marrows, and survived Vadran bourgeoisie besides. Jean adopted a leisurely pace, now that time wasn’t an issue. The Marshal wouldn’t be paying them off until much later in the day, and there was little to do in Walgarten.

“That was painful,” Locke said. “Would you have become like them, if your parents hadn’t….”

“They would’ve raised me better than that.” It had been long enough that it didn’t hurt to remember his parents, and Locke was as much of an orphan as Jean was—Lamor Acanthus be damned. “Let’s go back to our room, so you can swoon without acting.”

“Actually, the fall wasn’t faked,” Locke replied with a grin. “I hadn’t thought of using the giblets until your hand was in my pocket.”

“Bloody frozen hells, really?”

“I scrambled my brains against hardwood—a Verrari automaton thinks better than I can right now. What were you planning to do?”

“Cover up taking them by groping your ass.”  

“Shame.”

* * *

Locke agreed to stay at the inn while Jean took care of the last of their business, too tired to make a single protest. He was asleep before Jean was out the door, his clothes only half-off and his boots still on. Jean covered him with a blanket so he wouldn’t wake up freezing.

The shops of Walgarten were starting to open. Jean went to the printers’ street; Vadrans loved reading nearly as much as their brandy. He picked up two novels, one promising to be “the greatest tragedy since _Republic of Thieves_ ” and another called _My Dissolution: True Erotic Accounts of Noble Affairs with Educational Engravings._ The printer had left a note inside warning of the dangers of genital poxes and attempting any of the sex acts without prior stretching. Vadran attitudes towards sex made Camorri look like prudes, which had probably helped Locke tentatively press his hand to Jean’s trousers for the first time. He wondered how Locke had guessed that Jean wanted him, after Jean he’d spent years pretending he was no more attracted to his friend than a wooden board, but Locke was very perceptive—except for the many times when he was absolutely not.

Jean haggled for a pair of horses that looked promising, then had a week’s worth of supplies sent to the inn. With hours left until his meeting with the Marshal’s agent, Jean decided to go to the lake Walgarten had been built around. There was a small park with benches, where the elderly liked to feed aggressive northern geese. The birds quickly gave up on Jean as a mark, after making a few threatening hisses.

Cracking open the novels, neither of them was as good as advertised. The tragedy couldn’t compare to _Republic of Thieves—_ there wasn’t even much in it that Jean hadn’t already suffered himself. _My Dissolution_ was a little more interesting, because it wasn’t merely boring, but absolutely terrible. Jean caught up on some sleep in between chapters.

He wasn’t avoiding Locke, but it felt good to have time alone. Although, he was only staying out so he could think about Locke without being distracted by the man himself. Everything that had happened with Locke since—he wouldn’t picture them, the bodies under the Temple of Perelandro—their last days in Camorr had brought them closer, took two people who were already inseparable and stood them up against a world darkening each day. Except now it felt like it was getting better, and Jean couldn’t trust it. Locke would never leave him, but what if they ran into Sabetha again? If she still wanted Locke, Jean would have to settle back into simply being his friend, and that wouldn’t be enough anymore. Jean was lovestruck—probably had been, in a way, since they were ten and Locke had apologized for being an unbearable shit by stealing optics Jean couldn’t use.

_I don’t know who I am since Karthain, and I’m trying to find what’s mine, and I think all I have left that can’t also be his is you._

Oh, Jean was an utter fool. He’d been too busy fretting over his cock to realize that Locke had already poured his crooked heart out, then pretended that he hadn’t said anything important after the point flew over Jean’s head. No one in Locke’s past life could have been like Jean; he wasn’t mixed with a Bondsmage’s spectral leftovers, and Locke had trusted him enough to give him his true name while he was still lying to everyone else and telling stories about sailors. 

The Marshal’s woman arrived at the promised time: an hour before dusk. She sat down next to Jean, putting a leather bag between them. Her face was marked by a dueling scar, the type Vadrans favored so much that they’d irritate the wounds as they healed.   

“Such an obvious pick-up would’ve never worked in Camorr,” Jean said.

“Good thing we’re in Walgarten, then,” she replied. “You shouldn’t stay here much longer.”

“We don’t stay anywhere very long.” Jean took the bag and checked for the Vadran silver—the weight was right for it, and the coins looked genuine.

“That’s probably wise, with everything going to shit. The war in the Marrows will spread.”

“Thank you for the advice, Marshal.”

She rose to her feet, and patted Jean’s shoulder before she left. “Safe travels, whoever you are.”

* * *

When Jean got back to the inn, Locke was fiddling with a chafing dish. The room smelled like roasted duck, which was a welcome change from Walgarten’s street food.

“Oh good, you weren’t murdered,” Locke said, looking up. “I slept until the afternoon, but my head feels normally-sized now.” He carved the duck breast and divided it between two plates, adding pears poached in wine. “You said you wanted to talk about … the thing. Over a nice dinner, and the cook here isn’t terrible, if you tell him the only place cabbage belongs is up his asshole. There’s also a more than passable red wine.”

Jean packed the silver into a false pocket in their traveling bags, not wanting to risk the staff running off with it in the morning. All the money was there, as promised. As Jean took a seat at the table, Locke uncorked the wine with the flourish Father Chains had taught them, joining Jean after pouring two very full glasses.

“So,” Locke said, tapping his fingers on the table. He left it up to Jean to start the conversation.

Jean had had plenty of time to think on what he was going to say, and could do Locke one better than cryptic pronouncements from under a bed.

“You were right—Lamor Acanthus never had anyone as good as me,” Jean began, as Locke lifted one eyebrow and tried not to look amused, “and though I’ve only lived once, I know you’re worth all the trouble you bring with you.”

“That’s….” Locke hesitated, crossing his arms and making eye contact with the whole room, minus Jean Tannen. “Not unromantic,” he replied, softly.

“Do you want me to be more traditional? I have the speech of the Therin Minister to the Esparan Spy memorized. _There is no fairer flower, love, than one picked too soon, but I would rather you grow old_ —”  

Relaxing, Locke grinned. “Please don’t, at least when I’m sober.”

“I think this was always going to happen eventually.”

“What, you teasing me with Lucarno or—” Locke made a jerking off gesture, with a more graphic twist to his wrist than the times he’d directed it at Camorri bravos.

“Second one.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad it did,” Jean said

“Since we’re in agreement, I think that’s all the discussion we need.”

Locke took a deep sip of wine—not nervous, but thoughtful. The last few years had aged him, drawn more lines in his face than a man not yet thirty ought to have. But his eyes had never changed, always bright, drawing Jean’s attention and holding it. Jean hadn’t told Locke how Lamor Acanthus had had the same eyes, though rendered flat and dead by the oil painting. Locke had never looked like a child, even when he was one. And that was how Locke had gotten Jean’s loyalty from the start, wasn’t it? By being more than he seemed to be.

Jean reached over to tip up Locke’s chin, savoring how pleased he looked before he kissed him. Locke had been starved for physical affection most of his life, and even a light touch could overcome him. Fisting his hands in Jean’s doublet, Locke moaned and eagerly slipped his tongue into Jean’s mouth. Jean could’ve been content like this for hours, running his hands over the body he knew so well and yet never enough. But Locke never had patience, and Jean loved giving him exactly what he wanted. He broke the kiss so he could slide his arms under Locke and lift him up to chest-height.  

“You’ll wrench a shoulder, Jean!”

“You like how strong I am.”

Crossing the room, Jean laid him down on the bed, careful of the back of his head.

“You great beast of a man,” Locke said, doing a poor job of batting his lashes, “what about dinner?”

“Later, don’t you think?”

Hooking his legs around one of Jean’s thighs, Locke pulled him into bed. “Not planning on thinking for a little bit.”

“Little?”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Your cock is massive. A pillar of manhood, a sight for wandering travelers, an inspiration for poetry—”

“I’ve seen a bigger one.”

Jean started undoing the buttons on Locke’s doublet, exposing his throat and the light cotton of his shirt.

“On what? A horse?”

“I’m not as new to men as you are.”

After batting Jean’s hands away before he could get the last few buttons, Locke put him in a half-assed wrestling hold. “I’ll show you ‘new to men,’ you needle-dicked bastard.”

Jean let Locke flip him onto his back and strip him with a tailor’s efficiency, but much more groping than was professionally wise. His wallet hit the floor with a clatter of coin, shortly followed by everything else.

“Put your hair down,” said Jean, tucking a pillow behind his head.

“It’ll only get in the way—fine.” Locke tugged out the ribbon holding his hair back, which had grown past his shoulders since they’d left Karthain. He quickly ran his fingers through it to restore its shape, looking a bit like an actor caught in the wrong dressing room, and charming Jean completely. “It needs cutting. Good?”

“No, you still look terrible.”

Resting his hands on his hips, Locke replied, “Asshole.”

“I meant terrific.”

“Sure, sure,” Locke muttered. “You’ll have me sobbing into the mattress before the night’s through.”

Dipping his head, Locke licked the base of Jean’s cock, then worked his way back up until Jean was at full mast. Locke paused, making sure Jean was watching him (as if Jean could look anywhere else) before he wrapped his mouth around the first few inches of his dick and sucked. Then Locke circled his fingers around what he couldn’t take down his throat, which wasn’t much. Locke was smug about his new talent, when his mouth wasn’t already full. Jean thrust his hips forward, getting an encouraging moan from Locke. He threaded his fingers through Locke’s hair, finally noticing how his shoulder was moving, and the opened jar of lubricant by his knee.

“Are you fingering yourself?” Jean asked.

Locke withdrew and sat back on his heels. He was still, unfairly, completely dressed.

“I’m writing you a letter—what’s it look like?” he replied, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Should I rip a cock-sized hole in your hose, or are you taking them off?”

After slipping off his shoes, Locke rolled down his hose. His doublet ended at mid-thigh, so all Jean got was a view of skinny legs. “I’m keeping everything else on,” said Locke. “You know perfectly well what I look like naked. What you haven’t seen is how I look getting buggered in clothes you mended.”

“So, you’re going to remind me of sex even when you’re dressed?”

Locke blushed as he straddled Jean. “That’s the plan.”

He dipped his fingers back in the jar, making them oily again before he gave Jean’s cock a few strokes. Jean put his hands on Locke’s ass, helping him position himself so he could slowly take Jean’s dick inside him. Locke’s expression briefly tensed, just a little shadow of pain before he eased. He mumbled Jean’s name, adding “you big fucking bastard” as he twisted his hips and started to ride him.

“Didn’t quite hear you,” Jean said.

“Jean, you—fucking—you marvelous son of a bitch.”

Locke kept up a stream of insults and endearments that blended into each other, exhausting himself on obscenity until Jean took over, gripping Locke’s ass harder and moving him in time to each rough thrust. One of the few things more arousing than Locke defiantly running his mouth was when he couldn’t talk, just make the sort of noise a man usually had to pay good money for. Covering his own mouth after a particularly loud cry, Locke nearly fell forward, catching himself on Jean’s chest.

“Gods, Locke,” Jean said, letting go with his right hand so he could move Locke’s fingers away from his lips, caressing his cheek before dragging his hand down Locke’s neck and inside the open collar of his shirt. He could still feel the outline of Locke’s ribs against his skin, though he was gaining back some of the weight he’d lost in Lashain. It was more tempting this way, to rely on touch and memory rather than his eyes, Jean thought as he circled his thumb around Locke’s nipple. Jean would probably be distracted by this particular doublet of Locke’s for a long time.

“Shit,” Locke panted. “I’m close.”

Jean sat up, shifting his hold on Locke to his thighs so he could fuck him in his lap. It was trickier to get the right angle like this, but it was better this way. He wanted Locke flush against him, the buttons on his doublet prickling against his skin. Locke moaned and started kissing him, greedily and just the sort of clumsy that meant Locke was gone, nothing on his mind but Jean. With a hard tug on Jean’s curls and his nails digging into Jean’s shoulder, Locke came, his body tightening around Jean’s cock.

“Don’t pull out,” Locke said, turning languid Jean’s arms and nearly making Jean finish right then.

Wrapping one arm around Locke’s narrow waist and using the other to brace himself, he went deeper. Locke was still gasping with each thrust, breathing like he’d run a race. Jean came with a groan, saying something about Locke being his as he spent himself.

Jean got only few moments of afterglow before Locke was clambering off of him.

“I’m hot,” Locke complained, pulling off his clothes and leaving them all over the floor as he walked over to the washbasin.

“Being naked helps.”

Locke cleaned off his hands, then wettened a cloth so he could clean everything else. “Are you a leech now?” He rinsed the cloth and tossed it at Jean, hitting him square in the chest.

“No, still just a nursemaid,” Jean replied, wiping himself off. “Bring the food over here.”

Locke took a seat, grabbing his plate and putting his feet up on the table. “Chains said the only excuse for eating in bed,” Locke said, in between bites of cold duck, “is when you’re dying.”

Jean considered getting dressed again, but if Locke was going to flash his taint at the whole room, it would feel silly to have a shirt on. “I got you off without even touching you.’

Locke shrugged. “Yeah, and now my ass hurts, so get your own duck.”

“Did you sob ‘oh gods yes, claim my ass’ while I was coming?”

“Do you even have anything left in your balls? It was like you unstoppered a cask down there,” Locke replied, affecting innocence.

“Test them later tonight and you’ll find out.”

“Not twenty minutes?” Locke smirked. “You’re getting old, my friend.”

* * *

Jean woke up several times in the night because Locke kept thrashing in his sleep. He was also grinding his teeth and mumbling words Jean couldn’t understand, which was more unnerving, after Patience’s revelation, than Jean would ever admit. Normally, Locke wasn’t half so bad and Jean could sleep through it, but he finally gave up when Locke kneed him in the groin at dawn.

He dressed, then packed and repacked their bags, leaving out some clean clothes for Locke. Jean felt like they must have forgotten something. They never got to simply leave, not since Camorr.

So when there was a harsh knock on the door, Jean was almost relieved. Locke jerked awake by the third knock, his eyes comically wide.

“You’re wanted for the theft of Margrave Treffen’s cat!” That bellow didn’t belong to the innkeeper or her staff, and had the gruff, formal tenor of a guard. “Open the door!”

“The Marrows don’t even have a functioning government right now!” Jean called back. Who had betrayed them—was it Marshal Wolf? Or had one of the burghers not been so clueless after all?

“Tell that to our paymaster, the Baroness.”

“Fuck,” Locke said, rushing to get his hose and shirt on at the same time, and nearly falling on his ass for the ambition. “We’ll come out peacefully, but you have to give us a few moments. We’re completely naked.”

Whispering broke out behind the door. Locke finished throwing his clothes on and peeked out the window, then signaled that they should climb down.

“We’ve seen naked people before!” another guard replied.

“But you see,” Locke said, making a rope from the bedsheets. “We’re engaged in a depraved sex act.”

“We’ve seen people having sex before!”

Jean hurried to help Locke with the sheets, tying one end to the bedstead. His time as a sailor let him make quick work of the knot.

“No, not like this,” Locke replied. “It’s projectile, and we have to come down from the swing first.”

“Oh, by the king’s balls—just hurry up. We haven’t got all day.”

“Apparently, now neither do we,” Jean muttered.

Locke went over first, shimmying quickly down the rope and jumping down to the cobblestones. Jean flung their bags out the window and followed him.

“Son of a bitch,” Locke said as they ran down the street. “I really liked the doublet we put out for the laundress.”

“Just pray to the Crooked Thirteenth that that was the only thing we left behind.”

Well, at least they were practiced at being run out of town.

**Author's Note:**

> So like, there's nothing in the books that says Vadrans have same-sex marriage, but there's nothing that DOESN'T, either, so it's what I'm going with until _Thorn of Emberlain_ comes out and says very specifically that no, Jean and Locke can't get married in Emberlain. 
> 
> Berger the burgher was the one who alerted the Baroness to the dastardly scheme. 
> 
> The medieval/early modern treatment (are the books set in the faux 15th century? 14th? the important thing is that they are wearing doublets) for a mild concussion like Locke's was to sleep it off.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, havisham, who did it despite not knowing who the fuck anyone was!


End file.
